Toiling pen,
stretched paper,
wilted lips
from mood-bites
couldn’t resist
the sight of a mountain.

the reckless winds
quiet moods of trees
dirt bikes
drunken windscreen wipers
at the camp
made the ghosted and fatigued soul
to drink the elixir of life.

The fuel tank was low
the gas lantern
was high
to lit up
with the talks of labor
and the talks of reflections.

up above
and the
with their longings
made the moments
a long De javu.

Published by

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s